


The Unearthly Wail

by Arithanas



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Season/Series 03, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old cemetery of Forlì is haunted, or so they said to Augustino.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unearthly Wail

Forlì wouldn't need a village idiot if anyone found out what Augustino was doing, the dignity would be his for life, but that little whiff of gossip heard at Isabella’s shop brought back haunting memories which had nothing to do with the pitiful remains of the faithful. Augustino left his house and his wife, heavy with child, because he needed to be sure, for the sake of old days, that rumors were false; now he was stumbling in the darkness, like when he was a young madcap thirsting for kisses and hugs.

The old cemetery of Forlì changed nothing since the sinister trysts he used to hold with Isabella’s son, a freshly dug grave, some new flowers on an old cross, silent remainders of love and respect for those who left this valley of tears. Augustino crossed the clearing where many kisses were shared, where flesh trembled, oblivious to fear of fire and pitchforks in Hell. Augustino smiled and saluted the ghost of a passion stronger than consciousness, stronger than moral, stronger than the promise of paradise. May it please God that he and Violetta could reach half the joy he shared with Micheletto!

His duty done, Augustino was ready to return to his bed and his wife. The word of an old drunkard claiming that he was hearing sobbing and moaning from the cemetery the last days could never be true if that lonely grave was bereft of the little crown of flowers Micheletto’s always left on the cross every time he came to Forlì.

With confusion in his head, he returned to the gates, wondering why he was still fond of that memory when he had a wonderful woman, a proper housewife who will give him an heir or maybe a precious daughter; if that’s the case he would name her Catalina. His mind was wondering about a precious daughter who could be wheelwright because that would be something worthy to see, there was no need to conclude a daughter couldn't make a job where strength was less vital than craft.

The smile in his face wilted as soon as a scratching sound and a white shadow came to his consciousness, along with a whimper like the ones a wounded child would issue. A superstitious terror seized him and his hand was quick to trace the sign of the cross over his face and chest, all those years of sin and boldness notwithstanding.

“…why I would do that, you may ask…” The words were carried by the wind between heartfelt sobs “I don't know, but it happens, and I burn…”

No ghost could speak so clearly and in such deep tone, a tone he saw develops and he learned to love. Augustino gathered his wits and mustered the courage to approach because, even if it wasn't a ghost, Micheletto was as dangerous as a rabid dog and harder to fend off.

“Micheletto!” Augustino called his name, because he didn’t want to spook him, an act that never will be wise.

Micheletto was clad in a strange shirt, made of good linen, the finest quality showed in the way the moonlight made it clear to the eye, but dark blotches are on his back, mercifully, it was too dark to be sure, though Augustino was sure the stains were blood. His hand clutched a piece of limestone with which he scratched bad soil of the cemetery causing a screech that put goose bumps on any man’s skin; he was drawing figures that made no sense to Augustino's simple brain.

“Only the dead should walk here,” Micheletto said to him, more dark smears on his face, before returning to his madding scratching.

“What are you doing, Micheletto?” Augustino knew he had to insist; they both had never learned to write, and his friend and lover never did anything that carried no purpose.

“It’s the language of love, yes?” Micheletto only paused enough to point the figures, “I never asked how his name was written, and so I copy…”a little vacillation. “I do copy…”

“Whose name?”

“My boy’s,” a chocking sound left his throat, a stifled moan.

A sudden pang of jealously took Augustino unaware, but it was just natural: if Augustino moved on, so Micheletto did, but a wife was easier to find than a male lover.

“He read some words to me. Terrible words.”

“I don’t get it, Micheletto,” Augustino protested and planted his hand over Micheletto’s to stop the scrapping sound.  

“I was thinking of life,” Micheletto whispered his hand let go the limestone, “of loyalty, of what a big fool I am. “

“You know that’s not true.”

“I am, I truly am, I know nothing but to give…”

“No, you take.” The words left his mouth without thinking, as they always did when he was in the company of Micheletto. “You always take!”

Apparently, Micheletto was not so far away in the nonsense land that words couldn’t reach him and incense him like the oil of a lamp, placid until heat touch it. Micheletto sprang to his feet and toppled Augustino with an ease made of years of cruelty. He was soon over Augustino’s chest, clutching Augustino’s shirt with all his might, shaking the man inside  with the strength of an unstable mind.

“I gave my mother peace with these hands!” As Micheletto spoke, Augustino realized that he meant every word. “I gave my master assurance; I gave him the upper hand, I gave him secrets, I gave him revenge.”  Micheletto bashed Augustino's head against the floor until the wheelwright felt his teeth clatter inside his mouth, “I gave until it hurt, until I believed can’t give more!” Micheletto let out a sorrowful sight, a kissing cousin of a sob. ”And then, I gave the remaining dregs to my master... for he wanted a living bleeding heart to immolate in his sister’s altar…”

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled of and sat in the newly removed earth, blubbering and muttering more meaningless words. Augustino fought the urge to run away, as any sane man should do when he was viciously attacked for some careless words.

“Mine was as good as any…”

Micheletto was crying. That was such an unheard of fact that Augustino couldn’t deny it, and he had still a tender spot for his old flame, he couldn’t abandon him on that condition.

“I gave him my boy…”

That was a revelation and Augustino flinched like someone poked him with a cattle prod. He always suspected Micheletto was doing no good in Rome, at first he thought he was doing petty crimes, maybe stealing, but after the confirmation of the cold blooded-murder of his own father he expected sinister things; now, the whole ‘I punish the world for not being as I want’ business seemed to fall apart into his unsuspecting head, and it hurts to see him so mauled by the payback.

"Let me take you to my house, Micheletto, you need to bathe and to clean that shirt," Augustino tugged the linen, trying to figure out how to peel that stained garment off his old lover’s back. "You are going to spoil it..."

A violent sob was the only reply. Micheletto's crisped fingers dug deep into the armscyes of this fine shirt, his eyes were pleading, and the plea was drowning him in sorrow.

***

The words didn’t come out.

Micheletto wanted to shout, like he did when his boy was still alive, but the rage was drained of him in the route to Forlì; his body was a husk, filled with regret and self-loathing, with barely reach for a single emotion at once. Mostly, he begged. That was what love made of him: a beggar.

Although the topic was different, his whole plea was reduced to one thing: _Please, just one more time!_

Let me touch his hair, his dark curly hair, so soft; let me take it off his brow, as I did once, let me feel his sweat on my fingertips and how the curls unravel; let me pull it again in the heights of passion.

Oh, please, please, let me taste his lips, let me feel how his breath passes through his teeth as a cradled him in the throes of lewdness, let me feel the taste of his joy in my tongue.

Let me heard him speak my name again. Let me heard his moans and the way he snored in his sleep.

Let me have one more day.

And when Augustino tried to strip Pascal’s shirt from his back, his request was very clear and very precise: at that time, that small space that allowed him to yearn for something, anything, broadened into a paroxysm of unimaginable pain and every fiber of his being screamed helplessly: _Please, let me keep his warmth a little longer!_

_Just a little longer..._

***

"It was his..." for Augustino was enough to see how he held the garment to understand his heartache. After all those years, he still knew Micheletto better than his mother.

There was not use in trying to help his old friend now. Augustino could only press him to his heart tightly, offering the meager comfort of a shoulder to cry on. Real grief comes in waves; Augustino knew it since Micheletto left Forlì for the first time. The whole gibberish he muttered was just the trough, even his bout of violence was just a minimal part of his pain and shock; now the dam was broken, and Micheletto wailed so loud that tomorrow the villagers would have enough stories about tortured souls and mourning ghosts to last them a century; but they would never know of Micheletto. If his presence was noticed by the townsfolk, all of them would hand him over to the Tigress and she would have him quartered and flayed before the sunrise.

Augustino clutched him to let him know he was not alone, while his mind was racing like a stallion, trying hard to find a way to explain Violetta why this blood-drenched man was to stay the night in the workshop’s haystack.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author Note:** I can't wail loud enough to release how much Sean Harris' performance touched me. Sometimes, the only way to process the grief it is to put it in words.


End file.
